Putrid. Inflamed of thirst that can't ever be filled
This familiar light taken away slow, slowly...
As slow as my flesh wrapped, warped, wrapping still in
darkness, consumed, and devoured, and drank from
By serpents of skin slithering, tasting the diming bright

Cold and soft, and soft and cold,
I hear Winter call me through touch again, a dream
Figures so happy with warm mugs of kawhe
My lifting, waving arm's an itch I can't scratch
Would death's tongue kiss my fingers and light a match
Freed --stuck to this body eaten slowly by neuropathy

The world is a fading buzz of sound
Of hands sure, and sweating with want
Like the Halls of the Prince I ate from, died in once endless
So much like the dream of voices in prayer
Screams that mellow to 'Three Fruits, a Cure's Major!'

Yet I barely see the shine in sovereign's hope
Yet another lie sure, a moat

Shamtota and Tundra conjoined as twins
The taste of fruits plucked, meshed cold by restless Mothers
Putrid. I wish for life.


Penned by my hand on the 4th of Scarlatan, in the year 979 AF.